


baby you're my light

by ymorton



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Coming Out, M/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 04:28:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4207935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>nick and harry at a wedding</p>
            </blockquote>





	baby you're my light

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on tumblr, march 2014 
> 
> come say hello [here](http://www.ihavea1dbloghelp.tumblr.com)!

“It’s just that it’s a big wedding,” Nick says, carefully tying Harry’s tie. “Very public. Which means there’ll be a lot of cameras." 

"Not so tight,” Harry grumbles, gasping for air, all dramatic, curling his big hands around Nick’s wrists gently. “I know. Course there will. So what?" 

"So, you know.” Nick sighs, smoothing his hands down Harry’s shirt, the tie hanging flat. He’s so bloody good at that. Pretty much the only way he’s interested in being laddy. Is tying a tie laddy? 

“Be, like. Be discreet." 

"When am I not discreet?” Harry says, turning to look himself in the mirror, bumping his hip against Nick’s own. They’re in Harry’s house, a scant two hours before popstar Zayn Malik marries popstar Perrie Edwards, in what is sure to be the social event of the century. Six hours after the star-studded ceremony, though, the happy couple is jetting off to the middle of nowhere - even Harry and his fellow muppets don’t know where they’re going - for some well-deserved peace, quiet, and marathon shagging sessions. 

But first- wedding. Huge, ridiculous, over the top countryside farmhouse wedding. And Nick Grimshaw is on the invite list. Not as Harry’s plus-one, even. He feels embarrassingly validated. 

“You’re often not discreet, darling,” Nick says. “It’s part of your charm. Frequent nudity, terrible jokes, and an inability to be subtle." 

"I’ll be fine." 

"I know how you get at weddings. All soppy-" 

"How do you know how I get at weddings? I’ve never gone to a wedding with you." 

"Luckily, the media keeps track of your every move for me,” Nick says, and laughs to himself at the thought. “That’s kind of great, innit? I would never need to hire a PI or whatever, if I thought you were, like - stepping out on me. Just sic a pap on you." 

"Yeah,” Harry says, sardonically. “It’s so  _great_  how photographers stalk me." 

"Complainy popstar,” Nick murmurs, into Harry’s ear, looking at them both in the mirror. Harry’s pouting, and Nick kisses his ear, then down his neck until Harry snorts helplessly, ticklish. 

“Plus,” Harry says, squeezing Nick about the waist in retaliation. Nick’s knees nearly give out. His waist is  _so_  stupidly ticklish, as Harry knows well. “Plus, I’ve heard some horror stories of you at weddings. Drunken speeches about you being single and forever alone? Dancing on a table and accidentally stepping into a piece of cake-" 

"Ex _cuse_  me, libel and slander,” Nick says primly. “Don’t believe every blind item you read, Styles-" 

"What about Aimee, should I believe Aimee?" 

"That  _twat_ ,” Nick says, laughing. “Never. You should never believe her." 

Harry rolls his eyes. 

"I’ll be discreet,” he says. “Handjob in the toilets, though?" 

He grins at Nick in the mirror, dimple flashing. Nick is so, so helplessly fond. 

"Wait til after the ceremony, my little groomsman,” Nick says, pressing his face into Harry’s temple, breathing him in just a bit. “Contain yourself. No erections in front of London’s elite." 

"I’ll try my best,” Harry says dryly. “I have to go rehearse. See you there, yeah?" 

"Yeah,” Nick murmurs, turning his face in for a kiss, Harry’s mouth soft and open under his. “See you soon." 

Harry grins against his lips, digs his knuckles into Nick’s stomach and leaves him gasping, pats his arse as he slips out of the toilet. 

"Cheers!” Nick calls after him, catching his breath.

“Any time!” Harry sings sunnily back, and Nick hears the door close. 

–

The wedding is beautiful, of course. Zayn’s written his own vows. They rhyme, for a reason Nick cannot fathom. He never fancied Zayn Malik a poet, but there’s not a dry eye in the house, so he’s not going to judge. 

He’s sat next to Pixie- his plus one - with a woman on his other side who must be a distant relative of Perrie’s, because her accent’s wicked strong and she keeps snapping pictures of famous people. She even asks for one of Nick and Pixie. Nick obliges, of course. 

Harry cries, too. Nick watches him, helplessly and constantly, and Harry sniffles his way through the whole ceremony, stood up there with the rest of his boys plus a couple of Zayn’s cousins, standing proud and tall and red-eyed. At one point he catches Nick’s eyes, gives him a watery smile, and Nick swallows down a lump in his throat and gives him the tiniest wink.

Harry smiles wider, swipes a hand over his eyes and nods just slightly, turning back to the ceremony. 

The booze is free-flowing at the after-dinner - which has been trimmed down from four hundred people to two hundred. Still massive, basically. Nick eats swordfish and delicate, pillowy gnocchi and drinks so much champagne that he can’t stop hiccuping for ten minutes. It makes Pixie laugh so much she almost snorts champagne out her nose, and Nick cracks up too, clutches her arm and nearly weeps into his plate. 

A few family members are giving them strange looks, but what _ever_. Liam Payne has already sicked up - in a potted plant, very loudly, his girlfriend looking pained and rubbing his back - and it’s only 7 PM. They’re bloody saints in comparison. 

After dinner people move into a giant renovated farmhouse- honestly, Nick’s starting to think the whole farm was created for the wedding - to dance. There’s a live band and two DJs, both up-and-comers in London. Nick’s met both of them, so he goes over for a chat, gets pulled away by Caroline, who tugs him into the middle of the dance floor and immediately drops it low. The woman has great legs, Nick will allow. 

Ten minutes later he’s making an utter fool of himself, dancing to Rihanna in between Caroline and Leigh-Anne off Little Mix, who are both chanting “Grimmy! Grimmy!” It's  _terrible_  and also great. Nick loves to hear his name chanted. It’s one of those things you don’t realize you’ll want until it happens, and then you can’t get enough.

He’s sweating terribly when he begs off yet another dance and slips off the dance floor as Beyoncé comes on. 

“A water, please?” he says at the bar. “And a vodka-soda?" 

"Same for me, please,” says a voice behind him, and then a hand settles right at the sweat-damp small of his back and Harry pops up beside him, smiling. 

“Killin’ it out there, Grimshaw,” he says, leaning an elbow on the bar. 

“Don’t hate me coz you ain’t me,” Nick says, nearly leaning in for a kiss, like,  _hi, hello_. Harry gives him a bland smile, pulls back a bit, and Nick remembers. Oh right. Cameras. Public. 

“No one even says that anymore,” Harry murmurs. 

“Jealous?” Nick says nonsensically, grinning, and Harry dimples back and steps on Nick’s foot, grabs his drink and takes a deep gulp. 

“Save a dance for me,” he says, taking his water bottle with the other hand and turning away. 

“Will do,” Nick says faintly, draining half his drink in one go. 

“Top it off, if you don’t mind?” he says, holding it out again. “Nah, just vodka’s alright. Yeah, that’s it. Cheers. You’re a lifesaver." 

–

He gets properly pissed, then, ends up being passed around like a pressie from popstar to popstar, grinding or jumping or swaying as the situation calls for. He knows he’s drunk when he finds himself clutching Louis Tomlinson during a slow song, Louis’ cheek on his chest, quite drunk himself. 

"Hey,” Louis says, muffled. “Hey." 

Nick sings a bit of Etta James to himself, head spinning pleasantly. 

"Nick,” Louis says, trodding on his foot and jabbing him in the stomach with a pointy elbow, and Nick backs up, looks down at him. God, Louis is short. 

“You’re miniature,” he informs him, and Louis scoffs, steps on his foot again,  _hard_. 

“I’m trying to be serious, you fucking twat,” he says, a little slurred. 

“What?" 

"I was just  _saying_ ,” Louis says, huffing out a breath. “That, like. You and Harry, you know? That’s-" 

"Yeah?” Nick says cautiously. He’s got no clue what Louis thinks of him. They’re not enemies, of course, but they’re not exactly mates, and Louis’ been fiercely protective of Harry since they were practically children. Nick just usually likes to pretend Louis and his opinion both do not exist. 

Louis has an arm around his waist, and he’s listing to the side a bit. Nick holds him steady. 

“You’re good for him,” he says, halting, like the words don’t come out easy. “Even though you’re a thousand years old and a complete and utter cunt sometimes and you think you’re posh-" 

"Rude,” Nick squawks. “Rude! A  _thousand_ years old, honestly?" 

"Will you shut up?" 

Nick shuts up. 

"You - make him happy,” Louis says, rolling his eyes heavily. “And he - he fancies you a lot. He’s never been this happy. So just. Thanks. Okay? Thanks for, like. Taking care of him, or whatever." 

Nick feels abruptly teary-eyed. He draws in a breath. 

"Don’t be soppy,” Louis warns, glaring up at him. “Don’t give me that face, Grimshaw, I will knee you in the nuts." 

"Thanks,” Nick says, coughing to clear his throat. “Cheers, Tomlinson." 

"Yeah, yeah,” Louis mutters, letting go of his waist. “Don’t go on about it." 

Nick wasn’t going on about it, at all, but he lets it go, and Louis’ girlfriend comes by, grabs his arm and tugs him off, giving Nick a quick smile. Nick smiles back, heaves a sigh just as a hand slips into his, behind him. 

He turns. 

Harry’s grinning at him. 

"Did you?” he says, face pink, his lips half-open. God, he looks lovely. The barn is done up in fairy lights and the light is golden and warm on Harry’s cheekbones, the jut of his jaw. 

Nick’s stomach does an alarming swoop.  _I love you_ , he thinks, with the same sort of panicky affection he gets whenever he stares at Harry too long. 

“Did I?” he repeats. “Did I what?" 

"Save me a dance,” Harry says. His hair is mussed, curling loose from where he’s been sweating. Nick tucks a piece behind his ear, absently. 

Nick looks up, directly into a camera. Drops his hand from Harry’s face.

“Hands above the waist, popstar,” he says, half as a joke, nodding at the photographer lurking at the edge of the dance floor, and Harry just laughs. 

“Yeah, alright,” he says, just as the band launches into a [slow song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lZT2HmQmDjo), and Nick can’t help it, he sways into Harry, quietly puts his face into Harry’s neck. 

It’s more obvious than any arse-grope, but god fucking damnit, Nick is drunk and at a wedding and suddenly desperately, stupidly hopeful for something he can’t even properly define. He closes his eyes, feels Harry’s hand settle at the small of his back.

They sway together, slow, Nick breathing in the scent of him- clean sweat and cologne and hair product, sweet and fading and herbal. He sucks in a breath, lifts his arms and slides them around Harry’s neck, and Harry smiles at him, small and secret. 

“Hi,” he says, in the cocoon of Nick’s arms, his fingers stroking gently against Nick’s back.  

“Hi,” Nick whispers back, heart doing several painful flips in his chest. 

Harry smiles, crooked. “Dunno if this is what you meant by hands above the waist." 

It’s not, but Nick doesn’t care. He doesn’t fucking care. He’s thirty years old, and Harry’s a proper adult, and he’s just come off a worldwide stadium tour. They’re together, and some people know, and they’re at a wedding, and Nick is  _so drunk_  and  _so in love_. Drunk in love, one might even say. He resists the urge to sing Beyoncé. 

Harry must read it in his eyes, because the smile slips off his face, and he says, "Nick." 

"Yeah?” Nick doesn’t want to have a talk about secrecy, not now. 

“Nick,” Harry says again, shuffling closer. “I know we haven’t really - decided. When we’re going to, like - do the whole thing. Telling people." 

"We don’t have to talk about this right now,” Nick says, tongue thick in his mouth. “C'mon, Haz, let’s just enjoy ourselves-" 

"No, I-” Harry bites his bottom lip. “What I’m saying is. We never said it’d be here, you know? But I just. I just-" 

He leans in very close to whisper in Nick’s ear. 

"I want to kiss you, so much,” he says quietly. “I just want to kiss you." 

Nick’s heart jumps and starts pounding, heavy against his ribs. 

"You’re drunk,” he says, because he’s scared. 

Harry shrug-nods, still staring at him. 

“We can figure it out tomorrow,” he says, and cracks a grin. “You know? Let’s just - let’s just figure it all out tomorrow, okay?”

“Harry,” Nick breathes. 

“Will you do that with me?” Harry asks, and Nick really can’t process the way Harry’s eyes are dark and pleading. He just can’t. “Will you figure it out with me?" 

Nick nods, stupidly, too many times, and Harry smiles. 

"I don’t really mind the whole figuring it out thing,” he says, shrugging again. “As long as you, you know. As long as you’re doing it with me." 

"Course,” Nick manages to say, throat suddenly dry. “Of course I’ll be- with you. But it’s not- it’s going to be. It’s going to be a little bit awful for a while, Hazza." 

"Good, too, though,” Harry says thoughtfully. They’ve turned as the song has gone on, and Nick can see the photographer now, eyes on them. “I think it’ll be good." 

Nick nods, swallowing hard. "It will be." 

"So let’s just - fucking  _do it_ ,” Harry says, eyes sparkling. He laughs, and Nick laughs with him, choked. “I’m gonna kiss you." 

"In front of all these people?” Nick says, weakly. “You absolute slag." 

"Shut up,” Harry says, his hand sliding up Nick’s side. 

“I love you,” Nick says back, drunk and entirely honest, and Harry’s eyes widen just a fraction, lips parting. 

“Jesus,” he breathes. “Yeah?" 

"A lot,” Nick says, wincing. “A large amount. Massive." 

"Fuck, me too,” Harry says, his face lighting up. “Jesus, I’m bricking it. Let’s make it good, Grimshaw." 

"It always is,” Nick says, and Harry smiles and kisses him.

Nick sighs into his mouth, lets Harry kiss him open and lush and honest. 

Despite the late hour and the free-flowing drinks and the numerous another celebrities around them, Nick still hears a hush fall over the crowd. In the silence, he can hear cameras click. 

He keeps kissing Harry, cups the back of Harry’s neck and kisses him on and on. Pulls out every trick in the book. 

After all, it’s their first kiss. Proper, at least, proper and real and in front of everyone. If it’s going to be on the cover of every bloody tabloid on Monday morning, Nick’s going to make it fucking incredible. 

When Harry pulls back he’s flushed and breathless, and Nick’s so ready for this. He’s been ready for ages. 

“No going back now,” he says shakily, already terrified Harry will change his mind. 

“Don’t want to,” Harry says, pulling him closer, running his fingers over Nick’s nose, then down to his mouth, light and tickly. “Ever." 

Their second proper, real, in-front-of-everyone kiss is just as good as the first. Better, even. Though Nick’s maybe a bit biased. 

(It’s better.) 


End file.
